Enter the Prophets

Eighth Sunday after Pentecost / Proper 10

July 14, 2024

St. Luke's Episcopal Church, Seattle

Readings: Amos 7:7-15; Ps 85:8-13; Eph 1:3-14; Mk 6:14-29.

righteousness and peace will kiss each other Faithfulness will spring up from the ground (Ps 85:10b,11a)

These are such beautiful lines from today’s Psalm. Righteousness and peace so near to each other they could be described as joining lips, faithfulness emerging from the soil—this is what Israel was called to manifest. This is what the children of Yahweh were called into. Yet, in so many ways, humanity falls short; leaders become petty, calloused; and the people find themselves crying out, “Restore us again, O God of our salvation… Will you be angry with us forever?” (v 4a,5a) 

When the people of God turn their hearts toward the Holy One and give reverence to the Creator of all, then the land and its inhabitants may prosper. Psalm 85 encapsulates a familiar theology of land that echoes across the Psalms and can be found woven through the prophetic tradition in the Hebrew scriptures. 

Worshiping communities + divine favor + land intersect to formulate what it means to be blessed by God and to live in peace—this is also referred to as the divine covenant that is the basis for the promise of land. 

As we read in the Hebrew scriptures, over time societies and rulers forget or forego their side of the covenant, which would lead to exile and occupation. 

Enter the prophets.

In the seventh chapter Amos shares three visions. In the first two, the prophet intercedes for Israel saying each time, “How can Jacob stand? He is so small!” And God relents. But in the third vision, God pulls out a plumb line to measure the people Israel, and does not relent. The places of worship—especially Bethel, where King Jeroboam held court—would be decimated and the people exiled. The covenant and Israel’s connection to the land would be disrupted.

With Amos we encounter one function of the prophetic: to warn those in power of what’s on the horizon (since it’s too late for them to change). 

With John the Baptizer we encounter another prophetic function: calling those in power into account for their actions. 

While the story of John doesn’t speak explicitly to place, geopolitical factors are running in the background. 

John was killed by Herod Antipas, a member of the Herodian dynasty. (According to Matthew’s gospel, it was his father who ordered the slaughter of Bethlehem’s children after Jesus was born.) John spoke against Herod’s marriage to Herodias since, not only was she his brother’s wife, but he got rid of his first wife in favor of her—an act that likely spurred on a political conflict with his former father-in-law. 

Herod himself was only part-Jewish and conformed to the Torah when “politically convenient or expedient,” as one commentator put it. He, along with other family and members of the ruling class, was a middleman between the subjugated Jewish people and the Roman occupiers, always choosing what suited his own interests. 

And so we find him here in Mark’s gospel wining and dining with court nobles, army officers, and leading Galileans. Pleased by the performance of a dancing girl (Herodias’ daughter and his niece), Herod swears an oath to the girl to give her whatever she asks. No doubt he had something else in mind. Suddenly he is faced with a decision: kill John the Baptizer, or go back on his word. 

As one commentator describes the scene, it is “a parody on the shameless methods of decision-making among the elite. . . Human life is bartered to save royal face: Herod trades the ‘head’ (symbolizing his own honor) of the prophet to rescue the integrity of his own drunken oath.” (Ched Myers, Binding the Strong Man) . . . Human life traded, bartered, for the sake of political standing. 

The beheading of John the Baptizer illustrates how John is part of a lineage of prophets who, in service to the God of Israel, live in a place of precarity between the (dis)comfort of silence and the admiration/acceptance of the powerful. Under Roman occupation, the roles of colonized persons fell into very few categories. One could simply attempt to live quietly with integrity (hence, not a prophet). Or you could try to live reasonably well, by any means necessary (hence the tax collectors). Or, you could speak against the injustices and risk attention by the authorities (John, and Jesus). 

Enter the prophets.

This sudden detour in Mark’s gospel describing the story of John’s death—inserted as it is within the context of Jesus sending out his disciples—is jarring to the reader. Yet it allows the author to align Jesus with the prophetic tradition, while also using it as a point of departure from that tradition. Remember, Mark’s gospel begins with the daring claim that Jesus Christ is the Son of God (and Caesar is not). Jesus is the one about whom earlier prophets wrote, and the one whom—at the banks of the river Jordan—John himself proclaimed as greater, who would baptize with the Holy Spirit. 

As I sat with these texts, read about some of the geopolitical intrigues of Amos’s and John’s time, and meditated upon the psalm, my mind and my heart drifted to consider the realities of the land today, the land where Jesus and his disciples walked. You see, the story of John’s life traded for a promise flippantly made in a room filled with powerful men felt all too relevant in light of current political and economic churnings. Add to that the reading of the Psalm where “peace” is said three times in five verses, and I had a difficult time getting past the dissonance of it all. And so I turned (back) to my books. . . .

At this point, I feel I should warn you that for the next few minutes I’ll be discussing the war in Gaza along with the modern day nation-state of Israel. For those of you who have especially strong feelings, I hope that we may share in this space the grace of the Holy Spirit above all else. And, please know that you always have full permission to tune me out and come back in about ten minutes for communion. I trust you (to) know your boundaries. 

“Let me hear what God the Lord will speak / for you are speaking peace to your faithful people and to those who turn their hearts to you.”

As I mentioned earlier, a theology of the land that is interwoven through much of the Hebrew scriptures draws together right worship, divine favor, and a particular place—the land promised to Jacob, to Israel. This theology continues to function in our world today. However, it has been manipulated and weaponized for decades against a particular people: the Arab peoples of Palestine. From the Jordan river (east) to the Mediterranean Sea (west), from Lake Kinneret / the Sea of Galilee (north) to the Gulf of Aqaba (south), this region has been a crucible in which occupying forces have attempted to mold their vision of divine blessing. Which means that an ungodly amount of blood has been spilt. 

If you have not yet looked into the history of present day Israel-Palestine, or picked up a novel or book of poetry by a Palestinian author, or listened to music from a Palestinian artist, I encourage you to do so. (The library next door is even air-conditioned.) While I am no expert on the region, and won’t take the time here to recount the “Hundred Years’ War on Palestine” (that’s a book by Palestinian-American historian Rashid Khalidi, by the way). I am compelled to share the perspective of Palestinian theologians on peace and justice, and what that means for the land. I do this because we are linked with the war in Gaza simply by residing in the U.S.: a nation that funds military exploits abroad, and that exists through the mass displacement of indigenous communities. 

Theologies of the land are not a theoretical discussion for Palestinian theologians and their communities. They impact how faith communities live and survive. Since the early 20th century, virtually every Palestinian family has been impacted by the land theology that proclaims Jerusalem and surrounding region to belong to Israel. It was in 1948 that the first widespread action occurred—what Palestinians call the nakba, or “catastrophe” in Arabic. The ongoing displacement of Palestinians and the ways their lives are proscribed, controlled, and delimited has everything to do with a theology of the land that places ownership in the hands of an earthly nation, rather than recognizing that “the earth is the Lord’s and everything in it.” 

Even still, there are those like the Rev. Dr. Naim Ateek who dare to envision a liberationist and inclusive theology of the land for Palestine/Israel. Others like Jean Zaru, a leader in the Palestinian Quaker community, seek for ways to struggle for peace without resorting to violence so as to be faithful both to those living under colonization and to God. And while the Herods of today barter the lives of others for their own political standing, we are witnessing an ongoing nakba. Which is why we must seek out the wisdom of our Palestinian siblings in Christ now more than ever.

“righteousness and peace will kiss each other / Faithfulness will spring up from the ground. . . ” Another way of describing righteousness is with the language of justice. 

Jean Zaru acknowledges that in the struggle for justice and peace, there are those who choose violence. Rather than condemning them she turns to the teachings of Jesus and offers this challenge: 

A revolution of vitality must concern itself with the triumph of human values and of human rights. Christian teachings are relevant to such a revolution. Although these teachings are essentially nonviolent, they can never be characterized as encouraging passivity or disengagement in the face of injustice. Rather, Christ’s teachings are activist, highly political, and often controversial; sometimes they involve dangerous forms of engagement in social and political conflict. . . The peculiar strength of nonviolence comes from the dual nature of its approach: the offering of respect and concern, on the one hand, while meeting injustice with noncooperation and defiance, on the other. These seemingly contradictory impulses—to rage against, while simultaneously refusing to destroy—combine to create a force worthy of nothing less than a revolution. 

Dr. Ateek writes:

What are the implications of an inclusive theology of land for peace in the land? Simply put, it is this: the land of Palestine/Israel is part of God’s world. It belongs to God. God is its creator and owner as God is the maker and owner of the whole world. Today, God has placed both Palestinians and Jews to live on it. They must share the land under God and become good stewards of it. It does not belong to either of them exclusively. They must share it equitably and live as good neighbors with one another. Both nations must do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God. Once the demands of justice have been satisfied, a good measure of peace will be achieved and security will be enjoyed by all throughout the land. 

Enter the prophets.